


honey-tongued

by sunflours



Category: Produce 101 (TV), X1 (Korea Band)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Greek Mythology - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25232152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflours/pseuds/sunflours
Summary: Hangyul is told he'll marry a snake demon and is led to the doorstep of Cho Seungyoun instead.[inspired by the story of Eros and Psyche, or the happiest fairytale that can come out of greek mythology. kind of more mature than teen, but it's not that ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) so i went for teen.]
Relationships: Cho Seungyeon | Seungyoun/Lee Hangyul
Comments: 21
Kudos: 62





	honey-tongued

**Author's Note:**

> this is inspired by a prompt from the seungyul fic fest (??? i think???) that happened WAY BACK in january. someone had prompted for a hades/perseophone au. i didn't participate in that event because i can't write to deadlines, and i doubt that the original prompter will see this, given that it's not ... actually the prompt but something in a similar vein (i mean. x1 also ... disbanded like. a week after i decided to write this lol). 
> 
> this fic is horrifically self indulgent and was meant to be short and poetic but instead turned into crack halfway through. i rushed a lot of the plot because i could not stop rambling (even though i didn't really enjoy the process of writing this). this is a trash baby that needed to be finished so that i can actually maybe possibly write other things. 
> 
> i don't mean to rag on this that much, i just. needed to get that off my chest ahhaha

In the old days, we would say _sing to me, o muse, the wrath of Peleus’ son, Achilleus / and its devastation, which puts pains on the Acheans._

But those were the old days, the days of the Greeks fighting against each other, of a love tragically flawed, tragically beautiful, of a vicious fight over pride and beauty. The gods meddle, for what else can they do, except be godly? 

And that is, so very often, what the old days were about, in a world before...before ours. Before our world. 

(Well, not quite _our_ world; we are still centuries ahead of this story, dear reader.) 

Regardless. The gods persist. The gods live on. 

And the gods deserve love, mayhaps.

So sing to me, o muse, the story of the unknown son, who stole the heart 

of the god of passion, with a story that overcomes betrayal, suffering

of the utmost pathos, and the taming of unconditional love.

  
  


♡♡♡

  
  


Lee Hangyul is handsome. 

There’s not really any doubt about it: he is only seventeen, but he has perfectly proportioned, clear-cut features, with flawless tan skin, a high nose bridge, lips as pink as a peach and a wide smile that softens the angular planes of his bone structure. He has long legs (for his height, anyways) and a small face and well defined abs. He has no parents or money to his name, and his heart and mind are overlooked in favour of his looks.

There are whispers that his beauty rivals the gods, or that he is a god himself. Chiseled, cold, untouchable. (Or at least- Hangyul makes himself untouchable. He thinks it is easier that way.)

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Yohan tells him one day with a sunny smile. ‘I think I’m better looking than you.’

But Yohan is all gentle gazes and innocent grins and tall and broad, and so Yohan being better looking is not much of a comfort at all. 

And the whispers became murmurs, and the murmurs become sayings, and the sayings become fact. It is true, they decide- Lee Hangyul is easily a god, or even more handsome than the gods themselves. 

It is false, Hangyul knows- he is just a simple boy. Mortal. And whilst the gods are long gone, it makes him shudder to think of accepting this praise.

♡♡♡

Years pass.

‘Do you want to get your fortune told?’ Yohan asks Hangyul. ‘My father says that he’ll go on behalf of you.’

‘It’s okay,’ Hangyul replies. ‘I’ll go.’

So he goes.

The oracle isn’t too far, only a day’s journey away, and he likes upholding traditions like this; the father goes to have his child’s future predicted once they turn twenty, and makes the appropriate arrangements based on what the god of prophecy so decrees. Hangyul goes on his own behalf. He thinks it’s the benefits of being an orphan- he chooses his own future.

‘Oh.’

The oracle is young and short, with curly brown hair and big brown eyes and long flowing robes. He calls himself Hyeongjun. The other attendants call him a prodigy.

‘Oh?’ Hangyul repeats. It’s not the most promising thing to hear when you walk into a room with a boy who’s meant to decide your future.

‘I’m sorry,’ Hyeongjun says. ‘I- I just don’t understand.’

‘That’s okay, you can just tell me what you see.’

‘You’re going to marry within five years,’ Hyeongjun says unsurely. Hangyul raises his eyebrows in disbelief. 

‘Wow,’ Hangyul says. ‘Congratulations to me.’

‘No,’ Hyeongjun cuts in, and his big eyes begin to brim with tears. ‘You must go into the woods, when you’ll marry a hideous creature, a wickedly ugly snake with wings, and you will be married to that forever and ever, until the end of time.’

‘Ah,’ Hangyul says. ‘I see.’

  
  


♡♡♡

  
  


‘Say that again.’ Yohan demands. 

So Hangyul tells Yohan once more: he is to marry a flying snake demon, and that he must go to the woods and wait for this creature to carry him off for an eternal marriage.

‘You should pray to the gods.’ Yohan says with a clenched jaw. ‘This has to be some sort of mistake- I know people were saying ridiculous things about you being from Wooseok’s lineage, but that can’t justify this kind of anger. That’s a punishment reserved for- for- for blasphemers, or-’

‘They said I’m more handsome than Wooseok could ever be,’ Hangyul says gently. ‘That’s blasphemy, no?’

Yohan splutters out a _but it wasn’t you who said that,_ but he knows that this is Hangyul’s fate. 

‘It’s okay,’ Hangyul says. ‘I’m okay with it.’

He isn’t, really. But there is nothing else to be done.

He goes into the woods the next week. 

There isn’t much of his life to put into order; he has no family, so all he has to say goodbye to is Yohan. The village mourns, but there will always be handsome boys for them to praise; they wail over the loss of such a face, such athletic talent, such a good boy. Hangyul doesn’t know any of them though. He doesn’t think that they know _him-_ not really.

Yohan doesn’t cry when Hangyul waves goodbye, but he curses the ground bitterly, muttering swears as he kicks the ground. 

The trees don’t normally talk, but today they whisper to Hangyul; _follow the wind,_ they say, _they’ll take you to where you need to be._

‘To my husband?’ Hangyul asks calmly.

 _To where you want to be,_ the trees insist. 

‘I don’t know what I want,’ Hangyul replies cautiously. 

But he follows the wind anyway; it’s a cool breeze, a light breeze, and it leads him on a winding path until he reaches a small bungalow. It’s rustic, sure, but there’s a hint of modernity about it; there’s a small staircase leading to a wooden panelled house and a wooden door with thick glass slats. The bungalow itself seems to be in two parts. There’s the wood half, and then a slightly larger white brick half, with a black angled roof and a modest garden in front. Ivy clings to the walls and a large weeping willow tree hides most of it from view.

‘Here?’ Hangyul asks incredulously. ‘Are you telling me a snake demon lives here?’

The trees are quiet. 

_Maybe so._

Hangyul snorts. ‘Fancy.’

So he goes up the stairs. The wind has stopped but it’s still bracingly cold, so he wraps one arm around himself, the other hand still pulling up his suitcase. 

The inside is warm. Dark. He fumbles around the walls for a bit, but there doesn’t seem to be a light-switch, so he toes off his shoes and drags his suitcase inside. His eyes adjust to the dark naturally, so he finds the living room and a bedroom- only one bedroom, but it’s just as big as the living room, with a king-size bed and ridiculously fluffy pillows. 

There’s no TV, but there’s a large garden at the back. It’s a sprawling expanse of flowers and weeds and Hangyul itches to get his hands dirty and just start working, but the sun is setting. He figures if he’s spending forever here, he’s got time. 

There’s a beautiful grand piano in the living room and Hangyul lets his hand drift across the keys- he was pretty good at playing, and loved to hum songs to himself whilst slowly figuring out the chords. He can just about make a guitar as well, in the corner of the room. 

‘Huh,’ he says. ‘But snakes don’t have arms.’

So he lifts the cover off the piano and props it up gently, then slides the fallboard in. Hesitantly, he plays an A- from what he can tell, it’s in tune. He awkwardly pulls out the stool and sits down, letting his hands rest on the keys. He drags a hand across, figuring out the black keys from the white, finds middle C.

And he plays.

He plays piece after piece, until he’s realised he still remembers some old Debussy, and he’s halfway through the Pagodes before he hears the door swing open and a click of fingers and-

Oh.

The lights go out. The hairs on the nape of his neck stand up.

‘Hello?’ calls a male voice. Soft, lilting, high. ‘I think you’re in the wrong place.’

Hangyul is panicked, really, but he slowly turns around in the piano stool by swinging one leg over, and he huffs at the idea of being in the wrong place.

‘Seriously,’ the voice continues, and there’s an edge of threatening, as cool as a knife’s sharp blade. Honey wrapped around cold steel. ‘You don’t want to be here.’

So Hangyul gets up and walks forward blindly- his eyes should have begun adjusting to the light by now, but it remains stubbornly black so he knows that there is something bigger than him going on.

‘This is going to sound ridiculous,’ he says quietly, ‘but the trees told me to come here?’

There’s a beat of silence, and then a gentle, ‘huh’ from the other man- at least, Hangyul thinks it’s a man. It could still be his snake husband. But he was under the impression that the other being wouldn’t be so surprised, and was aware of this impending marriage.

‘I’m Lee Hangyul,’ he says. He was raised with good manners, after all.

‘I know,’ the other being says wearily. 

‘It’s nice to introduce yourself as well,’ Hangyul says dryly and he hears the being snort. 

‘It’s not that easy.’

‘Is it because you’re a flying snake demon?’ Hangyul asks, and he nearly kicks himself because that’s one fucking way to make sure your demon husband likes you. 

He gets a sarcastic ‘sure,’ in response, all drawling and dragging. ‘Because snakes can talk.’

‘Well, I assumed if you’re a demon, you’re capable of speech. Are you-’ 

And Hangyul breaks off and swallows nervously, looking up to the sky. He thought he was braver than this, sure, but not being able to see the other being makes this question more nerve-racking than necessary.

‘Are you my husband?’ Hangyul asks quietly. 

‘Maybe.’ It’s quiet, unsure, and Hangyul would even swear that the other being’s voice cracked a little. He’s never been more confused in his life, and yet somehow he feels like he can trust this being, regardless of whether he is a snake demon or not.

‘Maybe,’ he repeats. ‘Are you going to turn the lights back on?’

‘You can’t see me,’ the being says. 

‘I’m prepared to see a snake,’ he replies with a roll of his eyes, because self-consciousness is the last thing Hangyul wants. ‘But I can’t see anything, and if I’m living here-’

‘I’m busy during the day,’ the being interrupts. ‘I’ll let the natural light come in during the day, because I won’t be here. But when I’m back-’

‘I got it,’ Hangyul says. ‘Dark. And am I just meant to wait for you?’

‘I suppose. This is a surprise to me too.’ The being moves forward into the living room, and Hangyul flinches at the sudden sound. It makes sense then- there must be other reasons why he cannot see the other, and who is he, really, to argue with something not quite human. But he feels himself flush at just assuming that this is his husband, at the audacity of him to expect this from a being, a creature that sends a chill down his spine (not in fear, but Hangyul doesn’t really want to analyse it further).

‘I’m not going to tell you that you can’t leave,’ the being says slowly. ‘But you’re here for a reason. And the trees aren’t particularly helpful, usually, so there’s no guarantee you’ll come back here.’

‘So don’t leave.’ Hangyul summarises.

‘Don’t leave until I figure out what exactly Wooseok has in mind.’

‘Ah,’ Hangyul says. ‘Wooseok.’

He hears a curse and figures that he wasn’t meant to know that the other was on a fucking first-name basis with the god of love. But it’s a fairly common name, with mothers naming their children after the god in the hope that their child turns out blessed by their namesake, so Hangyul asks, ‘The same Wooseok-ssi that I’m thinking about?’.

‘Maybe.’ 

But it’s mumbled. 

‘Okay,’ Hangyul says. 

So he spends his days in boredom. He isn’t allowed to go out, of course, lest he faces the wrath of something immortal, so he spends his days inside on the piano. He gardens for the first week, transforming it from a weedy mess into something slightly more refined and bare before he finds some kind of gym downstairs, and then he remembers that he lives here, this is his house, so of course he wants to explore.

The gym is fancy. Sparkling new machines, weights, mats and a room with springy floors and wall-length mirrors and Hangyul bounces a few times with glee; he loves dancing, had loved it ever since he was a little boy, and he can spot a dance studio from a mile away. 

The kitchen is practically abandoned. He wonders about food, only for what he wants to just sort of appear in the fridge. Hangyul thinks about the ingredients and lets himself enjoy the process of cooking, and starts devoting his time to more time-consuming dishes, since he has all the time in the world.

He’s content with this, spending his days cooking, exercising, gardening, listening to music from old records that he finds dotted around the house. It’s almost like he thinks of something he could do, and then the house shifts itself to accommodate the dream. 

Hangyul knows it’s magic, or godly, or something. He doesn’t think too much.

He spends his nights with his husband.

He’s pretty sure this is his husband, at least. There’s never a mention of anyone else, and the being never corrects Hangyul when Hangyul calls him _dear_ or _honey_ jokingly. And yeah, he’s past the thought that his husband/lover/friend is a snake, but perhaps more out of wistfulness than anything, because he would do anything, _anything,_ to stop himself from falling in love.

For Hangyul, it is like being in the eye of the storm. His hair stands up on the nape of his neck at the knowledge that he is living with pure power, and the air practically crackles when his- husband, lover, friend, his _what-_ comes home. He is surrounded and yet, he is unscathed. Untouched. Almost worryingly so, he thinks.

He finds his heart skipping a beat when his husband comes at night and the lights go out at the quiet snap of his husband’s fingers. They eat dinner together, with Hangyul shyly serving up dinner the third night. He tries not to bloom under the compliments of his husband, but every day he gets a little more adventurous. 

They talk about things: life, the world, music, dance. They joke. Hangyul feels himself loosening up into his own self, not being so much the annoying older brother figure he is with Dohyon, whom he taught piano to, or the cheeky best friend with Yohan, but somewhere between those personas- or even a man lost at the sea that is his husband. And yes, his husband avoids any talk of work, as if Hangyul couldn’t already tell that he was well beyond mortality, but there’s such passion as he describes his day-to-day life. From working with people to composing songs, to witnessing a proposal. 

And Hangyul’s never jealous. His husband tells the stories well enough that he finds himself enraptured, and as if he was by his husband’s side.

(He tries not to think about the prophecy and at the thought of moving on from this quiet little utopia.)

They sleep together.

Same bed. It’s a king-size, of course, and Hangyul wonders if he will ever wake up with his husband’s arms- because he’s past thinking that his husband is a flying snake, mostly because he can hear his footsteps against the wooden floors- wrapped around him. They don’t kiss, or _sleep_ together, but Hangyul wishes they do.

The truth is that Hangyul awakens to his husband already gone. 

Around three weeks in, they fall into bed together after a day of discussion and Hangyul turns onto his side and looks up to where he thinks his husband’s eyes are.

‘What do I call you?’ Hangyul asks. He asks in a hushed tone, mostly because it feels wrong to speak up.

‘Your husband,’ is the reply. There’s fondness in the voice.

‘No name?’ Hangyul asks teasingly, but there’s an alarming silence that follows.

‘No.’ 

A rustle of blankets as his husband turns away from Hangyul. 

He feels like he’s messed up.

In the morning, he opens his eyes and blearily rubs them. There’s a strange warmth, and Hangyul realises with a jolt that his husband is still next to him, and he closes his eyes immediately.

‘Love,’ Hangyul says quietly, the pet name falling from his lips. He can sense his husband waking up, as there’s a sudden rustle and a panicked sound.

‘My eyes are closed,’ Hangyul adds on, and his husband falls silent.

‘Did you see me?’ his husband asks quietly, and his voice is scared and small.

‘Closed my eyes when I realised you were still here.’ Hangyul says. He figures it’s best to pretend to be nonchalant, so he waves his hand around and tries to avoid hitting his husband as he does so.

‘Oh,’ his husband says. ‘Did you not want to see me?’

‘Of course I want to see you,’ Hangyul says slowly. ‘But you don’t want me to see _you.’_

‘Oh.’

‘Love can’t live without trust,’ Hangyul says. ‘I want you to trust me.’

‘I do,’ his husband says immediately. ‘I do.’

‘Trust me?’

‘And love you.’

Hangyul smiles widely. There’s rustling, and then a hand resting on his closed eyes to keep them shut, and there’s a feather-light brush of lips against his. His husband draws away, shy, and Hangyul can’t help but chase the kiss with a giggle.

‘You can do better than that,’ Hangyul accuses, and there’s a snort.

‘I can. But you have morning breath.’

Hangyul grumbles and he goes to turn around and go to the bathroom, when he pauses. His husband makes an inquisitive noise and Hangyul chews on his lip.

‘Will you still be here when I’ve finished brushing my teeth?’ he asks. 

‘For you?’ his husband asks. ‘Yes.’

Hangyul goes to the bathroom and keeps his eyes closed the whole time, even through brushing his teeth and washing his face. There’s a lot of rattling and clanging as he drops things, and he swears he can hear his husband laugh- it’s a very beautiful laugh, like bells in the wind- at each new thing he drops. He practically races back to the bedroom, and his husband struggles to stifle his chuckling.

‘Where are you,’ Hangyul says, more to himself, and he hits the bed. His knees collapse on the mattress and he shuffles forward, hands in front of him and eyes still shut, and he comes into contact with a face. 

His fingers grapple against the other man’s nose, and then his cheekbones and he gently thumbs right underneath his eyes. He finds the man’s lips and he can’t help but smirk as he both hears and feels a sharp inhale from his husband when the pad of his thumb drags against the bottom lip. His hands rest at his sharp jawline, and Hangyul’s heart stutters at the realisation that he’s holding his husband’s head in his hands.

‘Incoming,’ Hangyul warns, and he not-so-elegantly swoops down into a longer, deeper kiss. There’s a hint of teeth, a flash of tongue, and Hangyul’s knees feel a little weak. 

They break apart to breathe.

‘I’m late,’ his husband says.

‘That’s really what you want to tell me,’ Hangyul says defeatedly. He lets himself fall flat on his back onto the mattress again, all his limbs stretched out.

‘No,’ his husband says lightly. ‘It’s what I have to tell you. What I _want_ to tell you is that I’m going to be home for the next two days.’

‘Shut up,’ Hangyul breathes. ‘The whole two days? Not just in the night?’

‘I’ll have to make it night,’ his husband winces. ‘Just so you don’t have to keep your eyes closed the whole time. But yes, the whole two days.’

‘Oh,’ Hangyul says, ‘this is gonna be so _fun._ ’

His husband clears his throat.

‘I’m going to be buying some stuff,’ he says awkwardly. ‘Food, general supplies. Is there anything you need?’

‘I don’t think so? This place is magic, the food that I want just appears.’ 

There’s silence and Hangyul thinks for a while before jolting.

‘Are you asking me if we have condoms?’

‘I didn’t want to _assume_ ,’ his husband hisses in embarrassment. ‘I don’t- I didn’t build this house, I don’t know what appears or not-’

‘Do we even need condoms, if you’re magical and I’m a virgin?’

‘You’re a virgin?’

‘You didn’t know?’

‘I didn’t want to _assume_ ,’ his husband repeats. Hangyul smiles brightly.

‘I thought you married me because I was a tasty virginal sacrifice, and that my personality won out over my hot, nubile body-’

‘ _Nubile?’_

‘We do need lube though,’ Hangyul muses, and he laughs at his husband’s choke. 

‘Right,’ his husband says.

‘Are you blushing?’ Hangyul asks amusedly.

‘...No.’

‘Do snakes even blush?’

‘I’m not- I mean-’

‘I felt your nose, dude, you’re not a snake-’

‘Don’t call me _dude,_ I’m your husband-’

‘I’m not even wearing a ring?’

‘I will buy you a ring,’ his husband declares. ‘A ring, and lube. Got it. Anything else?’

‘Flowers,’ Hangyul sniffs. ‘Gotta add some romance.’

‘Flowers,’ his husband repeats softly. ‘What kind?’

‘Does it matter?’ Hangyul asks. ‘I’m not gonna be able to see.’

‘What kind?

‘I like sunflowers.’

‘I can get you sunflowers.’

Hangyul wriggles around on the bed a little and gets himself back up into a seated position. 

‘Sunflowers, lube, and a ring.’ Hangyul says. 

‘I’ll be back as soon as possible,’ his husband says.

Hangyul tries to prepare a nice romantic dinner, with fancy fresh pasta and garlic bread and roasted meats, but then reconsiders the garlic breath that would come with it. He spends enough time worrying that the sun goes down sooner than he anticipated, and all he can do is close his eyes and wish for whatever his husband wants to eat.

‘Pizza,’ Hangyul questions when he opens his eyes. ‘Are those-’

The room falls dark and Hangyul rolls his eyes, spinning on his heel and pressing a finger into the firm chest right behind him.

‘You like pineapples on your pizza?’ Hangyul asks, and his husband splutters.

‘Normally, you say _oh honey, you’re home_.’

‘Oh honey, you’re home. You like pineapples on your pizza?’

‘I think it tastes nice,’ he says. 

They sit on the floor eating the food, and his husband experiments with some kind of magic that means that Hangyul can’t remember what he looks like once he looks away, but it gives Hangyul a splitting headache so they just stick to the pitch black. 

Hangyul realises that his husband’s stopped eating when he’s halfway through his slice, and he starts chewing very slowly in confusion. He swallows.

‘Is everything okay?’

‘I got the stuff,’ his husband says. 

‘Oh,’ Hangyul says. ‘That’s nice.’

There’s a beat of silence.

‘Did you want to start now?’ Hangyul asks. ‘I have sauce all on my face, I don’t think that’s particularly sexy-’

‘What, no, the _ring_.’

‘Oh, the ring!’ 

There’s another beat of silence and Hangyul wipes his hand on the tissue nearby and thrusts his left hand out into the darkness. There’s a quiet snort, and then there’s gentle, callused hands taking his ring finger and sliding something cold and heavy onto it. Hangyul holds his breath as it goes on, and then he cradles his left hand to his chest and idly twists it around his finger.

‘I want to give you a ring too,’ Hangyul admits.

‘Better not,’ his husband says quietly. ‘It’s not that I don’t want that too, it’s just. It’s complicated.’

‘I figured,’ Hangyul replies. ‘What about the flowers?’ 

‘You don’t want to know more?’

‘There’s nothing else you’d tell me,’ Hangyul says with a shrug. He’s still playing with the ring on his finger. It’s cool to the touch, and he can feel an engravement but he doesn’t know what exactly it is, he can’t focus enough to visualise the smooth strokes and also hold a conversation with his husband.

‘They’re on a vase on the table, you’ll see them when I leave again.’

‘You promised me two days,’ Hangyul whines.

‘You’ll see them in two days.’

‘They’ll be wilted.’

‘You live in a magic house,’ his husband says. ‘They’re going to look perfect.’

Hangyul can’t help but reach out and feel for his husband’s knee, before placing both hands on his thighs and practically launching himself at his husband, wrapping his arms around his husband’s neck and entwining his hands as he pulls the other into a deep kiss. 

The other man starts nosing at Hangyul’s ear, before licking the junction of neck and jaw and peppering kisses down Hangyul’s throat. Hangyul lets out a breathy moan at the feeling of his husband smirking into his neck.

‘You’re shaking,’ his husband says, his voice smooth and calm. ‘You okay?’

‘Shut up and take me upstairs,’ Hangyul says. 

Things don’t change too much from then.

There’s more kissing, and the other man takes more days off his supposed work than usual, and the two of them usually spend the days wrapped up in each other. 

‘Won’t you get in trouble?’ Hangyul asks one night.

‘I’m already in trouble,’ his husband confesses, and Hangyul gapes as the other man starts playing with the buttons of Hangyul’s shirt. 

‘Why do you even wear clothes,’ he mutters, and Hangyul bats at the man’s hands.

‘You’re already in trouble?’ Hangyul repeats. ‘Are people mad at you? Should you be working right now?’

‘I’m only where I want to be,’ the other man says, and Hangyul shakes his head. He knows his husband can see.

‘What about where you need to be?’

‘I can handle Wooseok being mad at me-’

‘ _Wooseok,’_ Hangyul hisses. The other man abandons playing with Hangyul’s shirt and instead goes to his shoulders, rubbing circles and relaxing the tension that crept in during the conversation.

‘Wooseok’s mad?’ Hangyul asks quietly. 

‘Wooseok’s harmless.’

Hangyul chews on his lip. ‘Wooseok’s why I’m here.’

There’s a beat of silence before his husband recoils from Hangyul. The younger man cocks his head in confusion, before he hears a sniff.

‘Wait, fuck, I didn’t mean it like that.’ Hangyul says quickly. ‘I just mean-’

‘No, you’re right,’ his husband says sadly, and Hangyul scrabbles to find his husband’s chin, holding his face so that he can look straight into Hangyul eyes- at least, he hopes.

‘I am _so_ happy with you,’ Hangyul says, the words practically falling over themselves, ‘and I didn’t mean it like that, I’m really glad that I’m here.’

‘So what did you mean,’ his husband says dejectedly. ‘Am I not enough?’

‘I had a family-’

‘You have no family.’ 

‘I had a family,’ Hangyul repeats. 

‘Hangyul,’ his husband says, ‘please don’t lie to me, I’m literally a god, I know that you don’t-’

‘A family does not have to be blood related,’ Hangyul hisses in anger, ‘which is something you _gods_ don’t understand.’

‘No,’ his husband says. ‘No, I suppose not. Am I not better than a family?’

Hangyul pauses. This is the first time he’s truly made _aware_ of his husband’s divinity, and the difference between the two of them. For his husband, the concept of family is different; as the legends go, the gods were born of nature, created through thought, materialised through magic. What would they know of parents and brothers? 

Whereas Hangyul would truly consider himself a social butterfly, flitting between friends as easily as a hummingbird in a meadow of flowers. He hopped around from house-to-house for most of his younger life before he met Yohan, and his friend had nearly flipped his father in anger when he realised Hangyul was preparing to leave. Hangyul was proud of his found family, and was just as proud of Dohyon, his piano student who was surpassing him in leaps and bounds, and who he often looked after when his parents were away. There was a genuine fondness in his heart for the younger boy, and the urge to look after him and pass on the belief and kindness that Yohan’s parents had invested in _him._

And then there was his husband. 

His husband, who brought him bouquets, and sings songs as he threads his fingers through Hangyul’s hair before he sleeps. His husband, who wraps his arms around Hangyul and shuffles them into a two-step as soft jazz music plays around them. His husband, who always asks about Hangyul’s day (despite Hangyul really not doing much), who buys gifts for him, who always unfailingly makes Hangyul laugh until his sides ache and his cheeks burn from smiling too much.

‘I’m in love with you,’ Hangyul says shakingly, and this isn’t really how he wanted to admit this. ‘I’m in love with you, but I love my family.’

‘What are you saying?’ his husband asks. ‘Do you want to leave?’

‘I can’t do that,’ Hangyul says. ‘I don’t want to do that, but you don’t even want to wear my ring, how would you let me leave?’

‘This,’ his husband begins, but then he stops and shakes his head. ‘I never saw it like this.’

‘Like what?’

‘Hangyul, I swear I haven’t done anything,’ his husband says, and Hangyul raises an eyebrow in confusion.

‘What-’

‘I’ll let your family visit,’ the other man continues. ‘I think I know who you’re talking about. The athlete? He can visit tomorrow. I’ll tell the woods to bring him here.’

‘I don’t understand-’

‘I should go to work for a while. I wasn’t lying when I said Wooseok’s mad, and I should give the two of you some quality time together. I might as well work.’

‘You don’t have to-’

‘It’s okay,’ his husband says. ‘I’m making it better.’

Hangyul didn’t even know that there was another room in the house, but his husband is perfectly polite and calm the rest of the night, doesn’t even lay another hand on Hangyul, and he disappears into the guest room shortly after their conversation. The darkness disappears with his husband, and the transition into bright light has Hangyul rubbing his eyes in confusion. He doesn’t try to follow his husband- he knows better than that- so he just lies down on the bed and turns his words over in his mind, wondering what exactly he meant.

Hangyul wakes up in the morning to confused yelling and a cold bed, and he looks out the window to see Kim Yohan swearing at the trees. He jolts out of his bed immediately, pulls on a shirt lying around and runs down the stairs, nearly tripping over his feet in the process. He makes it to the front door in peace and slides the door open dramatically, standing in the doorway and wincing at the loud _thunk_ of the door.

‘What the _fuck,_ ’ Yohan screeches as he catches sight of Hangyul.

‘It’s me!’ Hangyul yells, breaking out into a run and Yohan barks out a shocked laugh before opening his arms wide. The two hug and Hangyul nearly tears up as he feels Yohan trembling in his arms.

‘You’re alive,’ Yohan repeats to himself under his breath, and then suddenly- ‘you _bastard,_ you’ve been alive this whole time?’

‘Uh-’

‘I held your funeral!’

‘You didn’t have to do that?’ Hangyul can’t help but shout back, and Yohan squirms out of Hangyul’s hug to stare at his friend appraisingly.

‘What exactly have you been doing here?’ Yohan asks with a smirk and Hangyul rolls his eyes.

‘I’ve got a pretty banging garden,’ Hangyul says and Yohan giggles. 

‘Show me.’

‘You’re not mad?’

‘Explain it to me later,’ Yohan says. ‘You’re living in a fancy house and you’re alive, I’m happy for now.’

Yohan gets a house tour. He oohs and ahhs at the appropriate times, thinks that the garden is lovely and marvels at the amount of space, and how well decorated everything is. There’s growing confusion though, and Hangyul braces himself as Yohan plops down in a chair and stares at a blank wall somewhere in front of him.

‘I don’t understand,’ Yohan admits. ‘You were meant to marry a demon.’

Hangyul hums and busies himself, turning around to stare at the food in the fridge and think about beginning to prepare lunch.

‘Did you?’ Yohan asks. 

‘I don’t know.’ 

Yohan leaves when dusk falls. 

They don’t tell each other _I’ll see you soon_ because it felt strange to promise something unknown, so instead Yohan had gripped Hangyul tight and sniffed and said _be safe_. Then he had disappeared into the forest, his broad-shouldered, tall figure disappearing into the shadows, and Hangyul lets out a shuddering breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

His husband comes back days later, and Hangyul hates how off-kilter he feels. The separation and Yohan’s last words makes it difficult to return to pitch black and quiet conversations over home-cooked food, not when Yohan’s questions ring in his mind. Hangyul’s snappy, annoyed at every little thing his husband says or does, but also annoyed when his husband leaves him alone, gives him space. He hates feeling this way, but he’s not sure what else he can do.

What doesn’t help is his husband deliberately avoiding him. 

The time he spends working grows longer and longer, and soon it feels like Hangyul can go a week without hearing so much of a rustle of clothes. Maybe it’s the fact that he can’t leave, but he’s getting itchy, no longer content in the peace and quiet. One day, he wakes up and decides to go to find a river to swim in, but the trees seem particularly dense that day and whisper vitriol in his ears when he takes his first step into the woods. 

_Turn back,_ they hiss.

‘Or what?’ Hangyul asks out loud. 

_You die._

Hangyul gets over himself the next week and decides to wait up for his husband, maybe sit him down over a nice dinner and apologise for his recent behaviour. He waits every night until around 9pm, watching as their meals go from steaming to ice cold as he waits for hours on end, then goes to a cold bed and fashions his duvets into lumps that he can comfortably spoon. He isn’t angry, just in a patient state of mind. Then one day, darkness creeps up on the house in three blinks, and Hangyul turns around on his heel and grasps for his husband. He smiles at the feeling of cotton and thread, and tugs at what he thinks is the collar of a shirt, pulling his husband down into a kiss. His smile drops as his husband pushes him away.

‘No,’ his husband says. 

‘Oh,’ Hangyul says, and his hands begin to shake a little. 

‘Wait-’

‘No, it’s okay,’ Hangyul says, and he turns back on his heel. He was in the middle of mincing some garlic, and he clears his throat which is suddenly thick with emotion. ‘I was in the middle of making dinner, would you mind leaving so that I can see, please?’

He ignores the quiet sigh that his husband lets out, and he tries not to gripe at it too much; he knows that he’s being a bit bratty and sending off mixed messages, but he isn’t in the mood for his apparent husband to play with his heart once more. 

‘I’ve already eaten, love,’ his husband says softly, and Hangyul grips the counters tightly.

‘Oh?’

‘It’s why I didn’t kiss you,’ he continues. ‘We- I mean, uh, I had some pretty strong food and drink.’

‘We?’ Hangyul asks. His voice is just as quiet, and he’s decided to close his eyes to stop tears of frustration springing forth. 

‘Wooseok and I,’ his husband clarifies. 

‘What did you have?’ Hangyul tries to make his voice light, because it feels like they’re on the precipice of something bigger than the two of them, something that they can’t turn back from, and he doesn’t want to push himself over that edge tonight. 

‘Uh.’

‘Can you not tell me?’

‘Ambrosia. And nectar.’

‘Oh.’

‘Sorry. If I had known you were cooking, I wouldn’t have eaten.’

‘I’ve cooked every night,’ Hangyul says with a smile, and he hopes that his husband feels the ache that’s decided to settle in his heart as well. ‘Did you eat with Wooseok every night?’

‘Is this about Wooseok?’ his husband asks, and Hangyul shakes his head.

‘This is about you avoiding me,’ Hangyul replies.

‘I’m not-’

‘You’ve been home for a total of two days these past three weeks,’ Hangyul seethes. ‘You don’t talk to me, you sleep in a guest bedroom- which is bullshit, because this is your house- and you make up weird excuses to not kiss me.’

‘It’s not a _weird excuse,_ ’ his husband says and Hangyul whines.

‘That’s not what you should be focusing on.’

‘No, you’re misinterpreting everything.’ his husband says. ‘Because you won’t talk to me-’

‘Of course I’m doing that, because how can I talk to you when you’re avoiding me?’

The silence hangs in the air and Hangyul swallows. 

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t want to shout,’ Hangyul says quickly. ‘I’m just- I think I’m just frustrated. Please explain, I’m listening.’

There’s the sound of floorboards creaking, and Hangyul assumes that the other man is shifting his weight from foot to foot nervously.

‘I’ve been busy,’ his husband says, ‘which is a bad reason, but it’s true. I don’t actually need to sleep, so I just hang out in the guest bedroom and do some more work because I don’t want to bother you. And ambrosia and nectar make mortals into gods but it’s our food and drink, and I don’t know how much is needed, so I was worried that maybe if you kissed me, you would-’ 

His husband cuts himself off.

‘I phrased that badly.’

‘I get it,’ Hangyul says. _You don’t want me to become immortal. I get it. You’re sick and tired of me. I get it._

‘Who are you?’ Hangyul asks, instead of articulating his thoughts, and once again he’s met with silence. He fills it with a bitter laugh. 

‘I shouldn’t have asked.’

‘I wish I could tell you,’ his husband says and Hangyul shrugs.

‘You don’t have to lie,’ Hangyul says. And then before his husband can say anything, he says, ‘Please feel free to sleep in your bedroom tonight. I’ll be quiet. I’ll have dinner outside, so I won’t bother you.’

‘Are you mad at me?’ his husband asks. 

‘I don’t have the right.’ 

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m living here and I don’t have to do anything.’ Hangyul says. ‘You took me in. I’m under your roof. If I leave, I’ll probably die. I should be thankful to you.’

‘Are you?’

‘Normally.’

‘Okay,’ his husband says. ‘You know that you’re not a burden, right? I lo-I enjoy having you here.’

Hangyul doesn’t reply.

Instead, he breaks into the whiskey that’s stashed away in a pantry somewhere and finishes the bottle. He eats his noodles outside, marvelling at the beauty of the moon and waits for the ground to stop spinning and for his head to clear a little before he tries climbing the stairs to the bedroom; he’s not really sober, but it’s been hours since the whiskey was finished so he’s not exactly drunk either. 

He pushes open the door to the bedroom and holds his breath- the moonlight’s streaming in through the windows and the blinds are only half-shut, so the figure of his sleeping husband is illuminated. Hangyul would describe him as ethereal, but knowing that his husband is almost definitely a god, it’s more of a fact. 

His husband is facing the window away from Hangyul, and Hangyul closes his eyes and thinks to himself. The smart thing to do would be to slip into bed next to him, go to sleep and pretend that he never pondered this choice, and sleep well with the knowledge that he’s kept the trust between the two of them alive. 

But Hangyul’s tipsy, and lonely, and Yohan had said _Did you?_ in a quiet, pleading tone that had begged for Hangyul to say _No, Yohanie, I married a god, a beautiful, wonderful god,_ and Hangyul could only reply with _I don’t know_ , and he wants to know so goddamn badly. 

He pads around the bed and lets out a punched noise at the sight of his husband’s face.

Because he’s beautiful, painfully so. His eyes are closed and his eyelashes fan against the curves of his milky-white cheeks, his plush mouth is open ever so slightly, and his nose is proud, with a high bridge but button-tip that just projects to his dainty features. 

Hangyul takes a step back in shock, and swears under his breath as he knocks into the bedside table. His husband’s eyes shoot open and he sits up, shoulders immediately tense with stress and locked, and his gaze meets Hangyul’s.

Hangyul stares into amber, fox-like eyes and whispers _fuck_ as his husband’s face crumples. 

‘You _promised_ ,’ his husband says, and Hangyul whines as he reaches forward, desperate to fall forward and beg for forgiveness. He’s left on one knee, staring at space, his husband disappeared, and he lets out a strangled sob as he curls in on himself and begins praying.

The next morning is quiet. 

Hangyul doesn’t even bother washing up, instead going straight down to the pantry and trying to find another bottle of alcohol. The birds chirp gloatingly as Hangyul pulls out a bottle of wine, appraises it and grabs a nearby bread knife, using that to pop off the cork. He takes a swig and immediately regrets it, putting the wine back on the counter in disgust and walking out into the garden. 

‘Hello.’

Hangyul whirls at the sound behind him and winces as he comes face to face with a man he’s seen many times before. 

‘Wooseok-nim,’ he says. He tentatively bends his knees, ready to fall into prayer, but Wooseok fixes him with a look. 

‘You,’ he says lowly, and Hangyul raises an eyebrow. ‘I cannot believe Seungyoun chose _you_.’

Hangyul’s mouth falls open.

‘Seungyoun?’

‘Seungyoun,’ Wooseok repeats. ‘Did that idiot not tell you who he was?’

‘No?’

Wooseok begins to mutter curses as he paces the patio. 

‘Is Seungyoun,’ Hangyul starts, but his voice catches in his throat. He’s struggling to combine the image of Seungyoun, the god of passion and music with his love, the gentle, caring husband that he had gotten so used to; it wasn’t that surprising that Seungyoun was necessarily passion incarnate, but more that he was so happily domestic and settled with _Hangyul_ , of all mortals in the world. 

‘He’s not mad at you,’ Wooseok sighs. Hangyul cocks his head in confusion.

‘So why did he run away?’ Hangyul asks tentatively. ‘Is it because he doesn’t trust me anymore? I know-’

‘Don’t you understand?’ Wooseok hisses, whirling on his foot and stepping up to Hangyul to press a finger into his chest. ‘Seungyoun’s _protecting_ you. He’s been hiding you from the Fates themselves, because they decided that you were going to marry that _thing_ and get ripped apart on your wedding night! The second you knew who he was, the Fates realised something was wrong because your soul is meant to be _lost_ and instead they felt a spark of activity. He’s literally gone to the ends of the world to try and beg for mercy.’ 

Hangyul gapes. 

Are you really not going to say anything?’ Wooseok asks, and he’s glowing a little in his fury. Hangyul closes his eyes, staving off the tears and he laughs wryly. 

‘The snake thing is real,’ he says, and Wooseok deflates.

‘I don’t want to talk about that,’ he mutters. ‘Seungwoo’s going to sort it out in the morning.’

‘Sort it out how?’

Wooseok fixes Hangyul with a tired stare.

‘Are you really focusing on the snake?’

‘I’m processing,’ Hangyul whines and Wooseok snorts. 

‘You have bigger problems at the moment, so process quickly.’

‘Just hit me,’ Hangyul says weakly.

‘You have the Fates’ attention,’ Wooseok says matter-of-factly. ‘I don’t know what exactly they’re planning, but they asked me to take you somewhere.’

‘I can leave here?’ Hangyul asks and Wooseok rolls his eyes.

‘You’re dumb. The snake isn’t going to kill you, and the Fates have asked you specifically to come to this hill. Of course you can leave- in fact, you’re going to have to leave. You can’t just refuse the Fates.’

‘Do you know what’s going to happen?’

Woosoek’s mouth twists in an interesting way as he shakes his head, his floppy brown hair falling into his eyes. He shrugs. 

‘Not a clue.’

Wooseok snaps his fingers and Hangyul blinks to find himself standing on top of a hill, the wind rustling his hair and clothes. He turns around and realises that not only is he far away from anywhere he recognises, he’s alone.

‘Come on,’ Hangyul groans, and he spins around in circles. He’s hesitant to actually leave the hill, presuming that whoever wanted to talk to him wants to do it in that particular spot, so he sinks down into a squat, balancing on the balls of his feet. Minutes pass but still, no one appears, so Hangyul squints at the bottom of the hill; there’s a giant field of various wheats, and it looks more important than the grass he’s waiting on, so he rushes down.

Once he reaches the field, he gasps- it’s a sea of wheat, millets and flowers, and the smell is dizzying. He closes his eyes to take a deep breath and-

 _Finally,_ something whispers in his ears. His eyes fly open and he scrabbles at his ear to realise that nothing was there.

‘Who are you?’ Hangyul asks, and there’s a tutting.

 _You should separate the seeds before the sun reaches the middle of the sky,_ the voice tells him, and Hangyul’s mouth falls open.

‘Which seeds?’

 _All of them_.

‘Why?’

_Your husband awaits._

Hangyul stares out into the vast field and grits his teeth, settling down in a squat once more. He ignores the harsh sunlight streaming onto his back, ignores the dirt gathering under his fingernails and staining his trousers, and instead works through each plant individually, trying to identify each particular plant before separating them into small piles. He works without thinking too hard- he’ll do anything for Seungyoun, he’s realised, so he tries to do so as diligently as possible. He even ignores the ants that have begun to crowd around him, crawling over his feet and hands as he picks seed after seed off the plants. 

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realise that the ants are helping him. 

He’s well on the way to a breakdown when he actually checks his progress. It had seemed futile to try to think about his work so he had just been working as quickly as possible, throwing the seeds behind him in the vague direction of the pile they belonged to. But once he actually looks at the seeds, he falls on his butt in shock; they’re towering above him easily, and the piles are perfectly sorted. He squints closer- his eyesight has never been good- and raises an eyebrow at the lines of ants marching all over the piles. 

‘Wow,’ Hangyul says. ‘Thanks?’

The sun reaches the middle of the sky, and the entire field is stripped of its seeds. Hangyul’s drenched in sweat, but he knows that he only did maybe ten, fifteen percent of the work- the rest of it had all been the ants, who had dutifully worked alongside him. He winces at the sudden chill that rests in the air and he represses the urge to shudder. 

_You failed,_ the voice from before tells him. 

He grits his teeth. ‘Well, all the seeds are sorted, aren’t they?’

There’s silence, and Hangyul almost wants to think that he’s won when there’s a disdainful chuckle. 

_No,_ it says sweetly, and there’s a harsh breeze that blows the piles into disarray, and then a satisfied hum as the sun inches ever so slightly. 

_The middle of the sky,_ the voice tells him. _And look at your piles._

The voice had disappeared after that. 

Hangyul sobbed, screamed, begged, and prayed for hours on end before accepting his fate. He had swallowed his final prayer and instead looked around for the ants that had helped him, nodding his head in quiet thanks before he picked himself off the ground. He looks at the ring on his finger and notes that he can finally read the engravement- _my first and last_. 

That had been a few days ago. When he left the fields, he had stubbornly headed the opposite way from where his home with Seungyoun was- it didn’t feel like home without the other man. And to be honest, he didn’t feel deserving of the place anyways, since it was a home that was entrenched in Seungyoun’s presence, from the way the bedsheets smelt to the clean, minimalist interior, to even the instruments scattered around the place. He had avoided his previous village as well. He knows Yohan would be kind and let him stay, but he figures it’s better to stay low and avoid bringing attention and, well. A man returning from the dead would surely be note-worthy, even in a town as small as his. 

Staying in the woods for the past week or so has been nice though. It’s quiet, peaceful, and there’s enough that he needs to do in the day to stay alive that he doesn’t mind not having much to do. He hums to himself as he searches for water, hoping that Seungyoun can hear his small attempts at song. He figures his husband has given up on him; he doesn’t hate that idea. Gods were never meant to be tied down to mortals, especially Hangyul. He knows all he had to offer was his trust and understanding, and he had destroyed that all in seven swigs of whiskey and a stumble in the middle of the night. 

But it’s colder, and Hangyul’s tired, and the idea of trying to find his way back to the place he calls home sounds good right now. The trees are quiet as he trudges towards where he thinks Seungyoun’s house is-or was- and the wind remains...just that. A breeze. A whistle of air in his ears. He reaches a familiar ring of trees and the smell of a lake that he had often stared at, blinks, and suddenly his home pops into view. 

The lights are on. 

Hangyul freezes in his place as he sees a shadowy figure jolt through the window, and then the door bursts open. 

Seungyoun steps out of the front door, hair tousled and eyebags dark, and he practically races towards Hangyul, who’s still standing in shock.

‘Hangyul,’ Seungyoun breathes, and he pulls the younger man into a hug. 

‘Love?’ Hangyul asks quietly, and he can feel Seungyoun smile into his shoulder. Even though the other man is taller, he’s burying his face into the crook of Hangyul’s neck, pressing himself into the shorter man. 

‘Hangyul,’ Seungyoun repeats, and Hangyul lets out a shaky breath.

‘Seungyoun,’ he says for the first time, and he chuckles a little at how shaky and small his voice sounds. ‘Seungyoun, Seungyoun, Seungyoun-’

His husband’s name sounds reverent at this point, the name rolling off his tongue like a raindrop falling off a leaf, and Hangyul tries to keep his throat from thickening in sorrow.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Hangyul says, and Seungyoun makes a choked noise, shaking his head. He pulls back from the hug and stares Hangyul in the face, and Hangyul takes the opportunity to properly drink in Seungyoun’s face. 

He can’t help but smile at Seungyoun’s hair, bright blue and fuzzy with static, his hair standing on edge and framing his face- the way that the sun is setting and the light subsequently frames his face makes him look angelic (and Hangyul supposes that in a way, he is- Seungyoun is a god, after all), and his features are a seamless blend of angular and soft. His sharp eyes are curved into crescents and his smile manages to show off a cute pair of dimples. 

‘I thought you were dead,’ Seungyoun says, his voice a little hoarse and Hangyul’s mouth falls open in shock. Hangyul ducks closer, back into Seungyoun’s personal space, and peers into Seungyoun’s eyes- they’re a little puffy and red, and coupled with the sore throat, Hangyul can only assume Seungyoun was...mourning?

‘Well,’ Hangyul says uneasily. ‘I’m here.’

‘Yes,’ Seungyoun says and his grip tightens on Hangyul’s shoulders.

‘I’m really sorry,’ Hangyul says again, and Seungyoun quirks his head. 

‘Why?’

‘You trusted me,’ the younger man says, ‘and I- I didn’t trust you, and I betrayed you, and-’

‘You didn’t know who I was, and I was being evasive about it, I think I can understand you.’ Seungyoun says amusedly. ‘I was shocked at the time, for sure, and a little hurt, but thinking you were dead really put everything in perspective.’

‘Why did you think I was dead?’

‘Wooseok said the Fates took you,’ Seungyoun says, ‘and then you disappeared, and I wasn’t allowed to try to find you. They told me that you had failed their test, but also to wait for you. I asked Seungwoo to tell me if you turned up, since you never came home. They said you failed their test.’

‘I didn’t know I was allowed to come back.’ Hangyul says dumbfoundedly, still wrapping his head around Seungyoun’s casual name-dropping of the lord of the Underworld, and Seungyoun pouts.

‘You’re always allowed to come here,’ Seungyoun says. ‘I- Hangyul, I’ve really been thinking these few days and I really regret a lot of what I did to you.’

And Hangyul stiffens in Seungyoun’s arms, and the god pulls Hangyul into his arms and cups Hangyul’s head, bending his knees slightly to make their heights match.

‘Not in that way, I love you and you make me so happy, I just think I should’ve been honest from the get go.’ 

‘You scared me,’ Hangyul whines.

‘You’re a _baby_ ,’ Seungyoun laughs, and he quickly presses a kiss onto Hangyul’s cheek before putting his face back into the crook of Hangyul’s neck, inhaling deeply before continuing. Hangyul tries to focus on what Seungyoun’s telling him, and not of the feather-light touches of soft lips on his neck.

‘I first saw you a few years ago, I think so, anyways- time is...difficult, for people like me. But Wooseok and I went to check you out because people kept worshipping you and not Wooseok, and I think I fell in love at first sight. So when you appeared on my doorstep, I panicked and hid you away whilst I tried to figure out what exactly to _do_ with you. I asked you to trust in me blindly, and you did, which is more than I could have asked for, and I panicked when you couldn’t trust me anymore. I disappeared when I was emotional and didn’t try to talk it out. I have a lot of regrets, and I wanted to apologise as well.’

Hangyul blinks away the tears threatening to escape and he shakes his head. 

‘I trusted you because I love you,’ Hangyul replies. 

‘Past tense?’

‘Huh?’

‘You trusted me, and loved me, past tense?’ Seungyoun asks. He furrows his eyebrows. 

‘I’ve never stopped loving and trusting you,’ Hangyul says quietly. 

‘You don’t know who I am,’ Seungyoun says worriedly, and Hangyul shrugs. 

‘I know enough about you,’ Hangyul says. ‘I know you hum in the shower, I know you want to start gardening, I know you like to do work with your hands, even if you can just magic it. I know you like it most when I joke around with you, I know you enjoy bickering with me. I know you don’t have a preference for being the big or small spoon when we sleep together, I know you like to use stronger perfumes. I think I know you from the inside out, and I’m in love with enough of you to want to know all of you.’

And Hangyul learns a lot more about Seungyoun that night.

Most of it is superficial stuff; he learns about the curve of Seungyoun’s neck, the many smiles of Seungyoun, the way his eyes sparkle when he cries, the lines on his face that appear when he’s frowning. He also learns that Seungyoun had gone to Dongwook, their leader, and begged them for enough ambrosia to make Hangyul immortal, and then returned to an empty house and no word from Hangyul for days. 

He learns that in all the years of his very long, winding life, Seungyoun has never known love. 

He is the god by many names- Apollo, Ihy, Freyr or Bragi, but he likes his current one ( _seung,_ to carry, _youn,_ to amplify, to spread). All these names, for one discipline: passion. Seungyoun lets Wooseok take most of the credit. Wooseok governs love and beauty in all aspects, from the curve of a flower petal to the individual snowflakes that fall in a storm, and Seungyoun inspires the fire and sound behind it all. In his life, and in his work, Seungyoun could never have personally claimed to have known love. 

He knows passion, knows the hot touch of another’s hand, knows the way a body moves under his, but he also knows the way that eyes light up with knowledge, knows how the mind scrambles to keep up with ideas or information, because passion is not just _lust._

But love was foreign, and very much Wooseok’s job. But when he saw Lee Hangyul, he had fallen. 

Hangyul learns that Seungyoun was already a little bit in love with him when he appeared. 

It had felt like coming home to music and a flourishing garden. Watching a beautiful boy giggle and smile and joke around with him as they eat their dinners in darkness, Hangyul never questioning the total black that Seungyoun perpetuated. Seungyoun was content just watching, tracing with his eyes the curve of his cheek as he smiles, the slope of broad shoulders as he plays the piano, the arch of biceps as he simply goes about his day. He sees unequivocal kindness practically pouring out of the mortal, from the way he talks about his younger brother to the way he treats wildlife that wander into the garden. 

After a few months, Hangyul learns that ambrosia tastes like honey and fire, and it burns on the way down. 

♡♡♡

  
  


Maybe, yes, in the old days, we would have said _sing to me, o muse, the wrath of Peleus’ son, Achilleus / and its devastation, which puts pains on the Acheans._

But those were the old days, and the gods have found love.

So sing to me, o muse, the story of the unknown son, who stole the heart 

of the god of passion, with a story that overcomes betrayal, suffering

of the utmost pathos, and the taming of unconditional love.

**Author's Note:**

> @ pockyjn on twitter (but i mostly write for nct now i think)


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